Do you swear you won't forget me?
by Crunch
Summary: Set three years after the newsie strike, Racetrack has fallen on rough times ... and boy, has he fallen.
1. Its how you play the game

Do you swear you won't forget me By Crunch  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the newsies (for now.mwaahaahaa.) just Irish. So don't sue, ok? Believe me it wouldn't be worth it.  
  
** this is like my first real fanfic, so please please PLEASE review! I should know how I'm doing now before I give newsie fic a bad name. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
The sky outside my prison window hung thick and gray like a soaked sponge, ready to burst at the slightest touch. The smell of rain was alll around me; it clung to my cheap terry bathrobe and soaked my paper-thin bedsheets worse then the cold sweat of my reoccurrant nightmares. Seems like all it did these days was rain, rain,rain.  
  
"Hey, Anthony. Talk to me pal." Slowly, reluctantly I tore my gaze from the outside world to the 10x12 padded cell that has become my life. Or more specifically, to the paunchy old man who sat across from my cot, peering at me through patronizing, watery eyes, smoking a stogie. God I'd kill for a Stogie.  
  
"Pal?" I laughed, not a genuine laugh ofcourse. I can't remember the last time I really found something to laugh at, and oh boy does that scare me. "Doc, of all da woids I'd use ta describe us, pals aint one of 'em." Doc pursed his lips around the cigar and regarded me with stoic interest.  
  
"No? What would you call us?"  
  
"Hows about warden and convict? Or scientist and lab rat?" He shook his grayed old head in vague dissapointment.  
  
"Anthony, Anthony, we only want to help you. That is my only agenda, so why do you fight me?"  
  
"Cos I don't need help." Well, that's not completely true. But I sure don't need the kind they're offering.  
  
"Tony, be reasonable. You attempted to jump from the Brooklyn bridge, while yelling about the drowning of your family."  
  
"Yeah, well, I had a rough day. Ya know, papes weren't movin' fast, miserable weather."  
  
"Anthony, your familly died in a fire in Little Italy 10 years ago."  
  
"You're point, Doc?" He sighed and leaned back in his chair. In all the miserable time I'd known him, Doc had hardly moved from that seat. He's there when I open my eyes in the morning, and when I fate out at dusk, groggy from my little cup of gray pills.  
  
" Tell me about that day, Tony." each time he spoke my name like that, like I'd forget who or what or, the horror, where I was if he didn't keep reminding me, I felt like soaking the bum. But all it would get me is a one way trip to strait jacket city, and man the crazies in there can drive you mad. "And tell me about Irish."  
  
"Irish?" He grins like a bookie about to pull one over on some poor, dimwitted better.  
  
"Yes. You remember, you brought her up the other day. She seemed very significant."  
  
"Yeah, Doc, I remembah. I aint crazy." A rare smile plays around his lips.  
  
"Tony, lets not play games." And all of a sudden, my tiny prison faded away and I found myself pitching backwards through time, memories rushing past in a blur of colors and sounds. And I'm no longer shackled body and spirit in the cold sterility of Pleasant Grove Asylum, I'm back in Manhatten, 1901. The year of our lord, right?  
  
*.*.*  
  
Irish sat perched on my stomach, the fiery red curls that spilled from behind her ears brushing my bare chest as she leaned over to land a trail of kisses.  
  
"Hey,,,'ey, Irish." She broke off with an impatient groan.  
  
"Whatsa mattah?"  
  
"Just. are you soah Spot won't miss youse? He won't.. ya know, be waitin' up for youse?" She shrugged and leaned back down into my lips.  
  
"No, why would 'e?" I shrugged and shifted restlessly beneath her skirt. "I dunno. It's jus' dat da guy's sp protective of his goils. A' I don't need da leader of Brooklyn on me back cos I messed with his right hand lady."  
  
With a frustrated huff, Irish heaved herself off of my body and stood framed against the moonlight, hands on her hips. She did look beautiful when she was pissed. "Racetrack, if Spot has a problem wid us, then he'll have ta take it up wid me. It's not like he owns me. Now will you quit worryin'? You're killin' da mood!"  
  
"Ok, ok I'm sorry." I reached up, grasping her clenched fist between my own inkstained hands with an apologetic smile. "Ya know, I don't deserve youse." After a moment's hesitation, her pout dissolved into a pleased grin and she resumed her former position.  
  
"Have I told you how gorgeous youse are?"  
  
"Not tonight." She giggled and licked her full, crimson lips in that way she knows drives me crazy. "So tell me. Tell me I'm beautiful."  
  
I sighed. It was a game; one of her many games, and even though I wasn't in the mood tonight I had no choice. We both knew what could happen, what WOULD happen if I played the game right. Refusing Irish McGhanee was not an option; afterall, I was right about one thing, I probably didn't deserve her. Besides being one of the most stunning girls in Brooklyn, she was powerful. Like I said, she was Spot Conlon's second in command; an amazing position for anyone to hold, but for a female it was unheard of. It only took one look at those shiny, strawberry locks, creamy smooth skin, and twin emeralds sparkling from that pretty face, to see how she controlled those older and stronger than her so easily. While Conlon had his attitude and the dangerous look in those cobalt- gray eyes, Irish had everything. It was easy to see how she controlled me. So I played.  
  
"Baby, you're beautiful." She laughed and ran her fingertips across my cheek.  
  
"Tell me I'm brilliant."  
  
"You're brilliant. Gorgeous and brilliant." My efforts were rewarded with a smattering of hot, sloppy, satisfying kisses.  
  
"Tell me you want me."  
  
"Oh, God, I want you."  
  
"Tell me you love me." Ah, that was the tricky part. Did I love Irish? The way Jack loved Sarah, or Skittery loved Shakespeare? Did I lie awake atnight, positively soaring with the knowledge that I wanted to spend the rest of my life devoted to this single girl, this soul mate? I guess that's the question of the year.  
  
"Sure, I loves youse, Irish." Though my tongue lodged guiltily in my throat with that hoarsely whispered lie, her smile shone brighter than the backdrop of stars above her, glittering like chips of ice against a cloth of black velvet. Slowly she wedged her fingers between my flushed skin and my wasteband. Game over.  
  
*. * .*  
  
"Anthony? Are you in there?" Back in Pleasant grove. The shock of the gray, tiny quarters, in stark contrast to the moonlit memory, hits me like a bucket of ice water. "Anthony?" Doc repeated, concerns written across his face.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You were going to tell me about Irish."  
  
"Not much ta tell." I shook my head, trying to clear away the left over pieces of faded memories cluttering my head. No, there wasn't much to tell. "We went togethah, den she jus' left New York one day. No idea where she is now. S'not important anyways." That could have been true, though I had a feeling nagging me, this little voice in my head whispering 'why can't I remember?' over and over again. He nodded slowly and suspiciously, studying my haggard face with the intensity of a man searching for the secrets of the world. "Look, Doc, I'm tired. I thinks I'm gonna go ta sleep now, if dat's alright with youse." He didn't respond, just kept staring. With a resigned sigh I turned my face to the wall and tried to settled down, feeling his stare continue to bore through my unprotected back. I swear, sometimes sane people drive me crazy. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
So, whadya think? Should I write the rest, or keep my day job (crosses fingers). Remember to review! 


	2. Youth is wasted on the young

Do you swear you wont forget me? By Crunch  
  
Thank you so so so much to everyone who reviewed! Yipee!  
  
To Sparkles, again I'm sorry about the fic title, I promise I didn't know. So attention everyone, I'm not Sparkles! Ok?  
  
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I'd started talking to myself a lot lately. It wasn't because I was crazy, it's just that for the most part there was noone else to talk to. But who can say; maybe that's the same reason crazy people talk to themselves. I sure don't know. I've never met anyone crazy, before myself ofcourse.  
  
"Calm down. Just calm down, Race." I still thought of myself as Racetrack, after all this time. Even though I may have been countless years and miles away from the dusty cobblestone streets of Manhatten, and I'd traded in the bunk in Kloppmen's lodging house for an army cot in my private, refridgerated suite, I still knew who I was. They could take everything else, but not my identity. Not my soul. "Maybe if youse would jus' relax, and think about it, you could remembah." See the thing that had been bothering me since that anonymous day, when the subject of Irish had come up, was that after a while my memories dropped off into space, cut off like water from a faucet. While a part of me just accepted that she had left the burrough, never to be seen again, I still had those feelings constantly tugging on my arm and hissing in my ear.  
  
"Anthony. Nice to see you're awake this early in the morning." I started as Doc strolled into my cell unannounced, leaving the heavy iron door to swing shut behind him. Before it sealed itself into place, I caught a glimpse of the barren tile hallways outside, filled with Doctors and syringes and silence.  
  
"Is it mornin'?" The skies today, like most days, loomed overcast and dreary; the kind of skies that gave no clues as to whether they were hiding the sun of the moon.  
  
He sank down into the hard plastic surface of his chair with a soft groan. "My my, these old joints aren't what they used to be, are they? You've no idea how lucky you are, Anthony." I snorted, thinking that I'd gladly jump from this 5 foot 4, 120 lb, lithe 19 year old frame into any body, old or young, strolling freely through life at his very moment, with out a straitjacket in sight.  
  
He chuckled, interpreting my silence. "Ah well, youth is always wasted on the young.  
  
*.*.*  
  
"I'm only 17, Racetrack! I'se too young, I can't be pregnant!"  
  
"Irish, calm down!" I tried to soothe her, while feeling my world crumble around me like a house of cards. "We'll figuah somethin' out."  
  
"Me fadder will kill me." Her voice had switched from it's frantic high pitch to a deathly, flat whisper. She wasn't exagerating, either, I had seen her father from a distance. An enormous bear of a man with a beer gut and a beer bottle constantly glued to his hand, he wasn't a forgiving soul even when he was sober. And he rarely was. I had also seen the welts lining Irish's smooth skin as I gently removed her dress, all while she was sobbing about her father's recent acts of violence.  
  
"You can run away! Come live with me in Manhatten!" I cried.  
  
"No. No, he'll find me!"  
  
"He won't. I'll protect you, You and your.. our baby." Sniffing, she leaned in and kissed me through the tears glimmering in her frightened eyes.  
  
"Do you love me, Race? Tell me you love me." I licked my lips nervously.  
  
"Sure, Irish. You knows I do." Why did I always have such a hard time saying those words? I wasn't exactly honesty's very soul; I had manufactured countless headlines and maladies in the interest of selling enough papes to make it through supper. So why was uttering this one simple lie like pulling teeth, especially at a moment like this? "I love you." She nodded, consoled for the time being. "Youse'll see, Irish. We'll be ok, an' we'll be togethah." I threw my arms around her heaving shoulders and pressed my lipe against hers, something that always seemed to comfort her.  
  
"Yeah. We'll be ok."  
  
*.*.*  
  
"She was pregnant!" I cried, as I looked around to find that the moonlit street,the chill of the breeze against my face, and the spectre of Irish had all vanished, replaced by Doc looming two inches away from me.  
  
"Anthony, you had me worried. Now what did you say?"  
  
"Irish. She was pregnant. Wid' my baby." I whispered, letting the weight of the memory sink in. I clutched at my bed sheets with sweaty palms, fearing that if I didn't keep myself rooted to the earth I would go flying off into the past again. "She was 17, an' I was a year oldah. I remembah, it was wintah when she told me. We was so scared. Why did I forget dat, Doc?"  
  
He settled himself back into his chair, surprisingly, with an encouraged grin on his face. I could have leaped up right then and wiped that smile off the bum. "What you keep describing are repressed memories, trying to force there way out. Do not fight them, Anthony. This may be the only way you can be healthy again." I rapped my arms around my malnourished frame, trying to fend off the sudden icy cold that rapped around me like a suffocating blanket. So Irish and I had had a baby together. What was it's name? I had always wanted to name a baby after my father, Giovanni. But then, maybe it had been a girl. Maybe, when the Doctors finally realized I didn't belong here, when they finally let me out, I could find them. I could live in a house with my beautiful wife, Irish Higgins, and my daughter, named Marietta after my mother; a little girl with thick, Italian black hair and sparkling green Irish eyes. And We would live happily and sanely ever after.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * So whaddya think? Hope I didn't dissapoint! Stay tuned for chapter 3.. coming soon! And don't forget to review! 


	3. Suffer the children

Do you swear you won't forget me? By Crunch  
  
Thank you soo so so so much to you guys who reviewed, I am your devoted fan for LIFE!!!  
  
Here ya go, chapter 3! Kinda short, but hope I don't dissapoint.  
  
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"Race, Kid, come quick! Skitt's been hoit!" The cry from Shakespeare as Kid Blink and I approached the Newsie living quarters, full on hotdogs and beer from Tibby's, sent us tumbling up the creaky wooden staircase to the bunk room. Breathless, we found the boy lying on his bunk as Kloppman examined him by lamplight, clutching at the flannel sheets in obvious pain.  
  
"We found 'im lying in da alley behind da distribution office, me 'n Kloppman." Shakespeare told us.  
  
Skittery sucked in a breath between clenched teeth as Kloppman pressed gently on his bruised ribs. "There, there, son." The old man clucked sympathetically. "Yep. Yep, they're broken alright."  
  
Shakespeare shook her head, sadness brimming in her honey colored eyes. "Suffer the children."  
  
"Who's dat? Shakespeare? Skittery's voice shook weakly.  
  
"Nah. The bible."  
  
"Skitts, what happened?" I placed a hand on his shoulder as the injured boy gasped out the words.  
  
"I was on me route, sellin' not to far from heah. Jus' mindin' me own buisness, ya know? Dere was a man, 'e said 'e was Irish's pop. Wanted.. to know where 'is daughter was. I wouldn't tell 'im, so 'e.ah, easy Kloppman!"  
  
"Irish's dad?" My legs felt weak beneath me and my stomach churned with cold, metallic fear and disbeleif. My own voice sounted distant and lightheaded, even to my ears. "How- how did 'e know she was in Manhatten?"  
  
"Said 'e talked to some boys in Brooklyn. I swear Race, I didn't tell 'im nothing."  
  
"I know, I knows. T'anks, pal." He nodded and closed his eyes as Shakespeare stroked back the brown hair plastered to his sweat- soaked forehead. Thoughts rushed past me at a million miles per hour, sweeping me up into an endless whirlpool of dread. If Irish's father knew she was here, it wouldn't take long for him to find the lodging quarters. I doubted that Irish, let alone my baby, would survive that ordeal. "We, we just gotta be calm. We can't tell Irish-"  
  
"Oh, God." I felt the pit of my stomach drop out from beneath me at that familiar whisper. One by one, we turned to see Irish, clutching the frame of the doorway so hard her knuckles were tinted white. She was so pale, with the freckles smattered across her cheeks standing out from a mile away, and her eyes as large as dinner plates, she looked like she might collapse right there on the hard wood floor.  
  
"Irish-" She covored her mouth in horror, sucking in little breaths like a fish stranded out of water.  
  
"He did this! He knows where I am. He'll come for me, Race!"  
  
"No-" I crossed the room and took her flushed face between my hands. "I told youse I would protect you, didn't I? An' I will, I swear it." I desperately hoped that the waver in my voice wouldn't betray the black doubts creeping into my mind.  
  
"You saw what he did to Skitts! What if 'e hoits you too.."  
  
"He won't. You'll be safe once you move in wid' me, we's all gonna protect youse. Aint that right?"  
  
"Sure we's is." Kid Blink called from Skittery's bedside.  
  
Irish nodded slowly, but didn't raise her eyes to meet mine. Some how I didn't want her too. I was scared of what I'd find in those emerald pools. " Ok, Race. I'll move in wid' you." Releif blossomed inside of me. We really might get out of this ok, Irish and I. "But I gotta say g'bye ta Spot an' da boys foist, 'Dey been like my brothers. So we gotta go ta Brooklyn."  
  
*.*.*  
  
I sat bolt upright in bed, sobbing for breath and wrestling with the tangle of sheets wrapped around my body like a boa constrictor. "Anthony? What's wrong? What happened?" It took me a few panic ridden seconds to realize that it was Doc, not Irish, shaking me from my nightmare. I struggled for composure, listening to the thick, fat raindrops pelting the asylum walls as my labored breaths returned to normal.  
  
"Anthony, calm down. It was just a dream." Doc puffed reflectively on his cigar, his face creased with worry. But it wasn't just a dream.  
  
"I told her not ta go." I cried, desperate to make him understand. Desperate to make myself believe it. " I told her ta stay in Manhatten, Spot would understand. But she said.. she said she had to.." I trailed off, realizing how insane my ramblings must sound to the old man. But the look in those watery gray eyes told me differently. He understood completely.  
  
"Irish."  
  
Leaning back against the cushioned walls, I nodded and sank my head into my hands, but the visions danced infront of my closed eyelids anyways, memories tumbling forward like a snowball rolling down hill, bringing everything in it's path along with it. "I remember dat day, Doc. We was on our way to Brooklyn, jus the two of us. I'd wanted ta bring more newsies wid' us just incase, but she said we'd standout more that way. We walked all night, constantly lookin' over our shouldahs, afraid her fadder might be right behind us in da shadows." I swallowed hard, trying to slow the river of words spilling from my mouth. "But after a while, everyt'ing was quiet, just as it should've been. So we thought we was safe, ya know?. We got to da bridge and. . ."  
  
Suddenly I remembered. EVERYTHING.  
  
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Dun dun dun!!!!! I know you're all shaking your fists at me, but isn't the wait fun! Stay tuned for the next chapter, where all is FINALLY revealed! 


	4. Close but no cigar

Do you swear you won't forget me? By Crunch  
  
Here 'tis, the pivitol fourth chapter! All is revealed.  
  
(*voice whspers in crunch's ear*:Hey! thank the reviewers!) Oh yes, thanksabunch to everyone who's reveiwed! You guys rock! * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
*.*.*  
  
I paced back and forth, staring down at the still black waters a mile beneath us, shining like polished sea glass.  
  
"Irish, dis aint a good idea. Dis is definitely not a good idea." She clasped my hand in hers, though the unease embedded in her throaty voice was anything but soothing.  
  
"Relax, Racetrack. We aint even goin' in ta Brooklyn. Spot an' his boys is meet us on da bridge in 10 minutes, den we'se outta hear." I nodded, throwing an anxious glance at the trusty pocket watch clutched in my palm every few seconds. Only a little while to go, and we would be free of her father forever -  
  
"Irish! Where ya been? I was lookin' all ovah for youse, tramp!" A drunken slur rang through the gloom, stopping my heart cold in my throat. Irish turned to me then, her sad, frightened eyes cutting into my soul. We'd been so close. So close.  
  
"Do you love me, Race? Tell me you love me." It wasn't a game, and it wasn't a question. It was a plea.  
  
"Irish. . . Yes. I love you." At that moment I saw every second Irish and I had spent wrapped in eachother's arms, replayed a thousand time in my mind. All of those moonlit nights on the firescape, all of those dinner's at Tibby's, all of those magical, sweltering summer days spent running through the misty sprays of open fire hydrants in the streets of Little Italy. I heard every excited whisper, felt every eager touch, and tasted every lingering kiss. And you know what I realized? I loved Irish.  
  
I loved Irish, for all of her faults.  
  
I loved her because she made me love life.  
  
I loved her because she made me want to be a better person. She made me more than I was, more than I ever thought I could be.  
  
I loved the girl who made me a father. Who made me a man.  
  
I loved the girl who loved me.  
  
And I never got to tell her any of that. Because at that moment, her father rose up infront of us, like some mythical giant, and swept her aside like a rag doll. "Irish.. ungh!" I grunted as his mammoth foot connected solidly with my stomach. My eyes burned with dust and tears; I must have looked like a fish out of water, flopping around and struggling for breath on the cold grating. Slowly and deliberately, Mr. McGanhee stumbled over to his fallen daughter, lifted her up in his huge claws, and slammed her roughly against the rail of the bridge. All I could picture at that moment was the baby inside of Irish, crumpling like a wet newspaper.  
  
"You dirty hoar!"  
  
"Poppa, no -"  
  
"I raised youse!" He spit out, red with anger. "I took care a youse, you ungrateful bastard! I slaved away in dat factory for yeahs, puttin' food on da table and clothes on yer scrawny back, an' you repay me by getin knocked up by da foist street rat who'll look your way?" The man was drunker than any I'd ever seen, the smell of booze on his breath detectable from my sprawled heap on the ground.  
  
"You'se don't deserve a fadder like me! You don't even deserve to live!" What I did next, I knew I'd regret for the rest of my days and relive in all of my dreams. I did nothing. Instead I stayed, as the man let fly one iron fist in her horror-stricken face, sending her tumbling over the bridge, her screams fading into the inky blackness along with the fiery flash of her hair in the moonlight. Just like that, Irish was gone. Just like that.  
  
Blood pounded in my ears and rose behind my eyes, threatening to drown me as my heart ripped in two. I couldn't think, or cry, but atleast I could move again. And I did. With the wounded howl of an animal, more inhuman than anything that could possibly have escaped my own two lips, I lunged at the man watching his daughter dissapear into the night.  
  
I'm not sure how long I tore at him, or when I stopped hitting and started getting hit. But eventually I found my cheek pressed against the railing, hard irons screws tearing into my skin.  
  
"My daughter was two good fah youse." He slurred drunkenly in my ear. "And now she's gone. An' it's your fault, street rat!" I closed my eyes as he pulled back that log of a fist, too limp and exausted to fight back. Maybe it was for the best anyways.  
  
"BROOKLYN!"  
  
A single cry shattered the silence of the night, and suddenly the air hummed with well aimed sling stones. Irish's father was sweeped away in a sea of howling boys out for blood. "Race track! Race!" I felt Spot clutching at my shoulder. "What happened? Where's me girl Irish?"  
  
"Dead. My familly is dead. You're too late." I managed to whisper before surrendering to the darkness.  
  
*.*.*  
  
I swiped at the salty tears streaming freely down my cheeks, choking on the bitter reality of it all. Irish, the first and last girl I'd ever had a chance to love, was gone. There was no familly waiting for me on the other side of the prison walls with open arms and hearts, ready to give my life meaning and set me free from the cold, murky sadness that had taken hold of me. There was noone left.  
  
"Why did you make me remembah, Doc? Why?" The old man sighed and heaved his trembling old bulk from the chair. Gazing down at me, he smiled.  
  
"Anthony, it was nessesary. You're not lost anymore, don't you see? You know what happened. The hard parts' over, and all that's left is acceptance. And unfortunately , that I cannot help you with."  
  
"I don't get it, Doc."  
  
Sadly, he leaned down and pressed his lips to my forhead. "You see, Tony, You don't need me anymore. And that means It's time for me to leave." Painfully he straightened himself out, and with one last puff on his stogie, vanished into thin air.  
  
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Oooh! Ahhh! It all makes sence now! Or does it? Stay tuned for the series finally, coming soon ! And REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! I need to know I'm liked, ya know? 


	5. In the palm of his hand

Do you swear you won't forget me? By Crunch  
  
The last chapter! No, I don't want to leave!!  
  
Thanks again soooooooo much to all you guys who reviewed!!!! Keep doin' it!  
  
Doll Face: I am your fan for life! You rock, thank you soooooooooo much! Keep writing and reading!  
  
Anna belle: Yay, you really like it! Thanks for reviewing, I'd almost decided not to finish! Ahh, behold the power of the reviewer.  
  
Thanks also to Reffy, deemarie, and Raider. You guys rock so much! * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
My eyes flickered to the embroidered plaque mounted above the heads of the review board; a single splash of color against an endless sea of gray. In a flourish of cursive letters, most likely stitched painfully by some aging wife waiting at home, it read:  
  
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.  
  
"Anthony Higgens." A surly voice shook me back to reality. The head reviewer, a strong and pompous elderly man, hard nosed with age like the rest of the parole board, peered at me from behind a thick stack of papers propped in his gnarled hands. In minutes my fate would be sealed in those papers; freedom or banishment. "The purpose of this conference is to determine whether or not you are mentally stable enough to be released into society. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir." I licked my lips, suddenly dry as the Sahara.  
  
"Very well, then. Mr. Higgins, tell us, do you feel you are ready?"  
  
"Ready, sir?"  
  
"Ready to leave Pleasant Grove." Here we go.  
  
"Yes, sir. I - I aint nevah been more ready in me life." Was I speaking to fast? Did I sound too anxious? One wrong move, just one, and I would never get out.  
  
"I see." Thoughtfully he stroked an old polished wood cane as he shuffled through my file. "You were experiencing.. paranoid delusions and hallucinations?"  
  
"No. Well, I was, sir, but not anymore. You see, I just needed someone to help me through.. " How to explain Doc? "A year before I tried ta jump from da bridge, somethin' happened. Somethin' I didn't remembah, an' I didn't want to. But I think part of me knew dat I needed to remembah.." The skeptical arch of his eybrow told me I wasn't making any sence, but it was too late to turn back now. "So, that's why I . . . imagined Doc. He helped me remembah what I needed to; he helped me face da stuff I couldn't face alone. I know dat he don't exist, he never did. He just helped, dat's all."  
  
"Anthony, in times of trouble, we needn't turn to figments of our imagination. It is the Lord we must put out trust in." Give me a break. My freedom, my life was hanging on the line, and this chump wanted me to hail Mary?  
  
"What, so youse is sayin' dat everything dat happened ta me, it all happened cos I pissed off da big guy upstairs?" A sneer broke through before I could stop myself.  
  
"No, not necessarily. Sometimes we build our own Hells." I sniffed and stared out through the window overlooking the streets, into the deluge. The rain hustled assorted debris down the scoured cobblestones; newspaper pages, dried leaves, things the grounds keeper should have taken care of ages ago. All mixed together in a miniature broiling torrent that dissapeared into the gutters, like a thousand dreams lost.  
  
"Is dat right. You evah been through hell, sir?" The man considered this stoically before answering.  
  
"Yes. Yes I have, son. I fought in the war, until . ." He tapped the oak cane lightly against one lame, perpetually bandaged foot peeking out from under the desk. " I fought for God and for Country, and I - "  
  
"Why?" The old man sat there for a moment, incredulous, regarding me like a small child who'd just asked where babies come from.  
  
"Anthony, you have to believe in something."  
  
"Is dat what youse think, sir? That I don't believe?" I knew I was walking a fine line, and beneath the tightrope lay an endless fate of mind numbing drugs and gray walls, but the words tumbled unchecked from my lips just the same. "You're wrong about dat. Of course, I'se believe in God. Youse can't come inta dis world, on da front steps of an orphanage, wrapped in a sheet swiped from da hoar house down da street, an' not believe. You can't make a livin' runing booze to a' bunch a' bummers who'd soak ya for an extra swig, when you'se 8 years old, an' not believe." The pitch of my voice grew steadily, like a doomed snowball rolling down hill. "And youse can't see your love killed in front a' youse, your whole world ripped to shreds, an' not believe. So yes, sir, I believe in God. An' I truly hate him."  
  
(a/n * sorry!!)  
  
The head reviewers quivering lips parted into a stunned "oh", like he'd just been smacked in the face. After a moment of stunned, excruciating silence, he spoke. "Well, Anthony, sadly we cannot help you with that. This is an assylum, not a church, and I believe we've done all that we could do." It seemed as if he were aging infront of my eyes, the years and memories leaving their marks across his face as he sighed. "Take care of yourself, son. The streets of heaven are far too crowded with children already."  
  
"So.." I stood uncertaintly, heart beating in my throat. "So I could leave? I - I could go?"  
  
"Yes. You're free to leave. Just have the guard stamp your papers on the way out. But remember Anthony- you have to believe in something."  
  
*. *. *  
  
That night, I stepped through the heavy iron doors of Pleasant Grove, reveling in the cool autumn breeze against my skin for the first time in 6 months. Free at last. For once, it wasn't raining, and standing there bathed in moonlight, I stared up at the millions of starry diamonds shining above me.  
  
*The streets of heaven are far too crowded with children*  
  
Slinging the frayed suitcase across my shoulder, and pressing the two bits I'd been given for bus fair into the moist surface of my palm, I turned my face away from the sky and moved on.  
  
*You've got to believe in something*  
  
And I do believe in something. I believe in Irish. And I believe she's waiting, with our little Marietta or Giovanni. And I believe someday I'll get the chance to tell her that I love her. I guess that's enough for now.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Yippee!!! (Crunch does a happy dance) It's finished! Finally! Hope you enjoyed that, keep reviewing! Maybe I'll write another one, who knows? (takes a bow as the curtain closes) 


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